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Nodding, I brush my bangs away from my eyes. “Right. Okay. It’s more likely that we’re dealing with a sadist who uses torture to sate an emotional need. Sadists are sexually deviant, and even though there’s no proof the first vic was raped, sex is irrelevant. He’s satisfying his urges through torture. Or he was…”
“Not in the mood for a longwinded hash out, Bonds.” Quinn stuffs his hands in his pants’ pockets, impatient. I don’t fault the guy. I’ve already given the profile, and now I may have to expand on it.
“Torture might not be enough to satisfy his sadistic needs anymore,” I continue, working out the methodology in my head as I go. “He now needs to sexually torment his victims, too.”
“Either way,” Avery cuts into my theory, “the UNSUB is a sure psychopath. I was on the fence with the first victim, but this one is proof of what’s going on in his head.”
“Agreed. He’s one twisted fuck,” Quinn adds. “And because it’s easier for a sadistic killer to torture someone they don’t know personally, chances are we won’t find an outright common denominator between the victims.” He glances my way. “We should check in with the task force and see what they’ve dug up around the profile so far.”
I nod. “And maybe recheck ViCAP—go back at least five years outside the statewide area. This level of sadistic torture might show up somewhere else.” My thoughts intersect as I look down at the victim. “Most sadists restrain their captives on their own turf, so why would he take the risk at his victims’ houses? We need to cross-reference that, too.”
Quinn groans, his frustration mounting. “If we go nationwide, we’ll bury the task force. We’re already short on time. Not to mention resources.”
He’s right. But if we can find one significant clue, one important fact to ground our search, then it would be worth the extra effort.
Avery waves a hand through the air between us. “Hey, I know I’m no detective, and you’re probably already a step ahead of me—but don’t you want to know about the second message?”
A prickling sensation sweeps over me, and I narrow my eyes in her direction. At my confused look, she continues, “I’m assuming, of course, that you found a message at the first crime scene.”
“Avery, don’t assume. What are you talking about?” Quinn pulls his hands from his pockets and moves closer to the slab.
Grabbing one of the evidence bags from the table, Avery holds it up before us. Inside is a small section of what she found in the vic’s mouth. “I sent most of it to forensics, but I first took a closer look. When I opened up the particles, I found words—too small to the naked eye—printed and layered within the oakum.”
My thoughts grind to a halt. “Wait. Oakum?”
“Words?” Quinn says, almost in unison.
Avery’s gaze flicks between us. “Before you two went all Sherlock and Watson, I was trying to get to this. It read: Her walls talk.”
“Her walls talk,” Quinn repeats, as if he’s tasting the words on his tongue, trying to connect each one to the case. But it’s a far-off echo hitting my ears too slowly. My brain is already thumbing through literature, texts surfacing, blurring and tracing across my vision. Then, a portrait comes into focus as the pieces connect at an alarming speed.
My throat thickens as a surge of nausea coats my stomach. I realize I’ve swallowed my gum a second too late—but what does that matter? The answer is here. Right here. And I’m so stupid for doubting my first hunch.
“We need to go to the first crime scene,” I say, my feet already in motion and leading me toward the door.
“Jesus, Bonds…” Quinn catches up to me quickly. “What the hell? Are you going to let me in? We weren’t done back there—”
“I know…or at least think I know…where that first message is.” I don’t look over at him. I don’t want to see the doubt I know is on his face.
But he surprises me when he says, “Should I alert the task force of anything yet?”
My pace slows some as I glance his way. “No. Not yet. I need to make sure first.”
He nods. “Okay then.” He digs out his car keys as we exit the building. “I’ll drive. You talk. And don’t leave out any details.”
Fair enough. “Did you ever get around to brushing up on your medieval history?” I ask, and he sends me an annoyed glare. “Our UNSUB might be a copycat.”
12
Masterpiece
UNSUB
In the daylight, everything is pure, rich. It sparkles with a brilliant clarity, and it cannot be hidden. Such deeds should not only be committed at night. They lose some of their beauty if not greeted by light.
I almost laugh; I made a rhyme. Fitting, since I’ve been reciting poetry to my newest pets. She Walks in Beauty. Lord Byron, one of the greatest poets of the Victorian era—of the millennia, really—and neither can appreciate the poem’s stanzas.
I suppose, honestly, it’s not so much their inability to grasp it, rather than my inability to describe something so…ineffable. That which cannot be named. Something so exquisite, so delicate in its brilliance, that it’s impossible to explain. It just has to be felt.
